bleeding out
by A. X. Zanier
Summary: Vengeance is a dish best served cold
1. Chapter 1

Title: _bleeding out_

Author: A. X. Zanier

Status: Complete (17k+ words)

Rating: R (Language, violence, sexual situations, the usual)

Fandom: _The Invisible Man_ (SciFi, 2000)

Disclaimer: a) The characters and basic story ideas of _The Invisible Man_ are the property of others including, but not limited to Matt Greenberg, Studios USA, Stu Segall Productions and NBC Universal. Any additional characters or story ideas are mine. I make no money from this intellectual exercise. c) This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any opinions or views expressed herein do not necessarily reflect those of the author and are used for storytelling purposes only.

Sequel/Series: The Invisible Man

Spoilers: Probably. Does it really matter after all these years?

...

 **bleeding out**

 **...**

 _"A bad beginning makes a bad ending."_

 _Not just in books or movies or TV shows, but out in the real world. Or in the slightly unreal world I lived in._

 _And this beginning? Bad would have been several steps up._

 _My fault. It's all my fault._

 _..._

One of the last things my brother said to me as we ran down that hall knowing that around any corner could be a madman with a gun. This time though the fault was indeed mine.

I pushed off the wall to pace the darkened hallway buried in the bowels of the Agency, smelling the harsh acrid scent the smoke had left on my clothes. As I stalked the worn and cracked linoleum, I ran my hands through my hair in frustration, ignoring the detritus I could feel on my skin, not caring that my careful coiffure had been ruined.

 _Stupid, idiotic, over protective partner._

The meet the Official had sent us to break up had been anything but little. The pair of stooges we'd planned to arrest had turned out to be a dozen heavily armed men who wanted no part of coming in quietly or easily. Even with the element of surprise on our side, we'd been woefully outnumbered.

Apparently, one of the weapons on sale was of the type that went boom and caused other things to burn with exceeding profligacy and, of course, the warehouse had been home to boxes and boxes of knock off designer products from Levis to Michael Kors handbags, all of which burned with a petrochemical enthusiasm that scared the shit out of me. Luckily, sort of, the fire had started between the bad guys and the only available exit, which meant they had been as trapped as us.

Hobbes had called for backup, which would be coming one way or another, given smoke from the fire could probably been seen for miles. Since the fire department would not be able to handle heavy weapons fire, we'd decided to do everything we could to thin the herd before too many people got hurt.

I sighed heavily, pausing in the darkened end of the hall, part of me wanting to punch the wall until my knuckles broke, the rest wanting to slide down it to sit on the floor and hide my head in my arms and never come up again.

In my indecision the memories slithered right back in, forcing me to go over, yet again, the events that had played out this afternoon. Hobbes, the stupid fool, had managed to score the high ground, while I did my best to not get shot. He'd worked his way up into the catwalks dangling from the roof and make his way to where he could see the group from above. I'd gotten turned around thanks the smoke and trying to keep my ass in one piece, which I had managed to do pretty well, but I'd planned to backup my partner on his play.

He, well, Hobbes sent me off into some random corner of the building, only I didn't realize it until the gunfire started behind me. By the time I arrived back where I had started, their numbers had been cut in half and Hobbes wasn't talking to me over the comms. Angry as hell, I waded in and took out the few that remained mobile, then went to find my partner.

He'd taken two bullets, one in his upper chest and the other to his left thigh. I'd gotten him down from the catwalk, him bitching and moaning he was fine the entire way even though I knew he wasn't.

 _Then_ the cavalry arrived. Too late to do anything more than mop up the mess that wouldn't have happened if we'd had proper back up from the get go.

I came back to myself sitting on the floor a few yards down from the lab door my partner was hopefully getting patched up behind. It wasn't my fault he'd been hurt and yet… yet it was all my fault. I must've screwed up somewhere along the way to end up so far out of the action…

"Shit," I muttered, hating Bobby for a long moment. Stupid idiot had probably done it on purpose just to get me outta harms way before the bullets started flying for real. Not that I wanted to get shot, mind you, but I'd improved over the years and was passable when aiming for the torso. No, I'd never be a sniper like Hobbes or Monroe, but I could hit a target well enough when needed. Just didn't need it very often what with the Quicksilver and all.

I could only wonder if Hobbes hadn't trusted me to do the damn job or if he was simply protecting the Agency's investment once again. An ongoing issue between the two of us. I might not have chosen this life for myself, but since that toxin leash had been removed, I'd done it to the best of my ability. Well, mostly. I still refused to do scut work or crap jobs, but those I worked, I _worked._

Yeah, I guess I grew up, if only a tiny bit, somewhere along the way. But not enough, apparently. Which is why I currently felt like crap. I had seriously failed today and Hobbesy had paid the price for it.

And he shouldn't have.

I should have been there to back him up and wasn't.

"Darien?"

I raised my head to see Claire standing over me, concerned.

I rubbed my eyes, finding my cheeks damp with tears I hadn't realized I'd shed. "Can I see him?"

She shook her pretty blonde head. "He'll be out for a while yet, but he will be fine. Neither injury was life threatening."

"How bad?"

She clasped both hands before her. "Bad enough. Blood loss of course. A through and through to his leg, but fairly minor for that. His shoulder…" she trailed off, tipping her head slightly, eyes narrowing as she looked me over.

"Keep, just tell me," I request feeling suddenly exhausted.

"Cracked scapula. It'll take some time to heal. Maybe some muscle damage. He'll need some physical therapy in order to achieve a full recovery." She looked like she wanted to say more, but instead her eyes went wide. "Darien, you're bleeding."

"Huh?" I glanced down at my side, where a bullet had gone screaming past at some point during the final fight and had gone unnoticed until this moment ruining my pretty green shirt well beyond salvaging. A puddle had begun to form on the floor next to me, which meant I had been sitting there ruminating over the events of the day for longer than I realized. "Oh, that would be why my side aches, I guess.."

She seemed momentarily confused by my lack of concern. "Darien, are you all right?"

No, I wasn't.

I was tired.

So, very tired.

Tired of being used. Tired of being mislead. Tired of taking down bad guy A only to have B through J surge in to fill the hole left behind. Tired of banging my head against a wall.

Just god damned tired of it all.

This job, the job I had learned to love no matter how bad the fit had been at first, had stopped being fun a long while ago, but I'd only just now realized it.

I forced myself upright, back snug against the wall as I slid upwards until I had achieved some vague form of vertical and looked down upon my Keeper. "Fine, Keep."

She set a gentle hand on my arm. "No, you're not," she argued and though she was right I didn't agree. Now was not the time to tell her I wanted out, it might force her to do something she really'd rather not - like remove the gland from my skull and not coincidentally leave nothing of me left behind but a cooling husk.

I already knew that getting out of life here at the Agency would require giving the Official back his property.

And while I would prefer to not go out on my shield, if the situation were right, I'd probably do it. Thanks to that stupid good-guy streak I'd acquired somewhere along the way.

All of which could wait for another day. My main concern right now could only be for my partner who looked to have a long road ahead of him before he could return to the job he loved. My Keeper, however, had her own set of worries and it would appear they all involved me based on the sharp look she had aimed my way.

"What?" I grumbled, not wanting to play word games with her right now.

She placed her fisted hands on her sides and huffed at me. "I need to patch you up. " She waved at the blood trail I'd unwittingly left up and down the hallway. "To the Keep with -"

"Oh, there you are," Eberts interrupted as he came around the far end of the hallway moving faster than I've ever seen.

"- you," the Keeper finished, head twisting about to shoot a glare at the office lackey for interrupting her.

Eberts's eyes widened as he spotted the blood I'd left lying around. "Darien, you appear to be bleeding… everywhere," he stammered out.

I could quite literally see the blood drain from his face and some twisted part of me enjoyed it. I shrugged at him. "Not as much as Hobbes, who might never work again."

I hadn't realized there was a shade beyond white, but the geek managed to achieve it remarkably quickly. He looked to Claire, who seemed to decide to go along with the exaggeration game I had started.

"He'll be on light duty for months, at least. He _will_ need detailed and specific physical therapy and the Agency will be covering all of it."

Eberts swallowed hard. "Of course, doctor, he was injured in the line of duty after all. Right now, however, I need your assistance with one of the prisoners."

"Since when do prisoner's injuries take precedence over our agent's?" Claire asked, a steely edge to her voice that boded ill for Eberts if he did not have a good answer.

"They don't," he asserted. "All the non-life-threatening injuries received to those we have in custody have been taken care of by your assistant."

"Then what could you possibly need me for?" she sounded exasperated at this point and I couldn't blame her.

"I need you to verify the identity of one of the men we captured," Eberts explained, as if that would enough to prevent us for going for his throat in irritation.

"And who does he claim to be?" I questioned, wondering how one man could be important enough to pull the Keeper away from her care and feeding of the Agency's only invisible man.

"Arnaud de Fehrn."

I blinked. I… we… the Agency had been looking for him ever since he'd escaped after blowing his way out of the basement cage and limping his way out the front door and the country near as we'd been able to discover. He'd neither been seen nor heard from since in anything other than rumors. "What?"

Eberts turned to me with no little terror in his eyes. "The man we have in the padded room claims to be Arnaud de Fehrn," he repeated as if I were a small child or hard of hearing.

Arnaud. Here and the cause of my partners injuries. And I'd just been thinking about my brother's almost last words to me. The taste of irony lay heavy on my tongue.

Without a word I pushed past Eberts, ignoring my Keeper's shouted "Darien, stop," and ran down the halls to the padded room.

Two of the better agents, Simmons and Franklin, stood outside the door, both staring at me from the moment I turned the corner at a near full run. I can imagine the figure I presented, bloodied, smoke smeared, hair wild and coated in ash, and my eyes probably red and raw from the smoke, streaks down both cheeks from the tears I'd been shedding not long before, while waiting to hear if my partner would even survive his injuries.

"Fawkes," Franklin choked out as I approached, slowing my steps only slightly, "we have orders to keep everyone out till the Keeper has-"

"If you prefer being knocked out first, that's fine with me, but I will be going in there one way or another."

Simmons considered me for a long moment and then stepped aside while his partner shot him an irritated glare.

He just shrugged. "Heard Hobbes was hurt pretty bad. I'd want my pound of flesh," he waved in my direction, "and if it _is_ Arnaud the Agency gets the payday dead or alive."

I snorted in amusement at the agent's mercenary reaction, though I didn't give a flying fuck about the monetary reward in this case. I just wanted that pound of flesh he'd mentioned. I wanted it personal and no little bloody.

Franklin sighed heavily, but moved away from the door as well, looking anywhere but at me.

I took that to be tacit agreement if nothing else and stepped between them to open the door.

I knew the moment the guy turned around he could not be Arnaud.

I ignored the disappointment I felt. I mean knew the chance that it could actually, truly, and for real be Arnaud was slim to none. But hope, one tiny, frustrating, spark of hope, had been there inside me and it had driven me to dash down the darkened hallways of the Agency like the madman I used to be to charge into this room and face the man who had killed my brother and sent me on the path I currently strode down. I still had plans in my head, dreams and goals that involved my hands and Arnaud's throat and him dying before my eyes. Every time I had that nightmare that ended with Kevin's death I brought those plans back out looked them over again, making changes and adjustments that varied with my mood, but they always ended with that light leaving the eyes of the one man on this planet I truly hated.

I sucked in a breath as he stared at me from the far side of the room, eyes wide in surprise. Granted, I probably looked like hell on a bad day, but it couldn't be that bad, could it?

I strolled forward, trying to take a casual stance, and glanced at myself in the two-way mirror. Okay, so maybe hell on a bad day was too mild a description for how I looked. Even I was impressed with how shitty I appeared right now. Little wonder everyone's eyes bugged out when they saw me coming towards them.

"So who are you?"

He sighed heavily, running a bruised hand through his hair. "You people are surprisingly hard of hearing. My name is Arnaud De Fehrn, de Thiel, or if you prefer the Phone or any of a half dozen others. Why is it so very important to all of you."

" _You_ are not Arnaud," I stated, anger making my heart pound in my chest, not enough to Quicksilver, but more than enough to make me wish it could still affect me, the toxin it once contained giving me an excuse to lash out and wipe that snarky look right off our mystery man's oh-so-pretty face. I glanced down at my right wrist at the snake, just a simple tattoo now, the tiny LEDs and microchips that had provided the red and green colors long since removed. The scar had long since faded. The Quicksilver Madness was nothing but a memory that I, mostly, kept from haunting me.

I didn't always succeed.

Stupid subconscious.

Right now I kinda wished for the excuse of Madness.

He just rolled his eyes. "That's what you and all your ass-hat buddies keep saying, but, whether or not you believe me, I am-"

I didn't remember moving, but I found myself with my hands twisted into the collar of his shirt, his body pressed firmly into the wall. I had apparently used enough force to ring his bell even with the padding to protect him. "You are not Arnaud," I growled. I watched the dazed look in his eyes turn to fear. "Arnaud killed my brother. Do you really think I'd forget the face of the bastard who did that?"

He stared at me with eyes so wide the whites could easily be seen around them, then he swallowed hard and I could see on his face that he knew the lie hadn't been bought this time. That I did indeed know the truth.

"Wha… What agency is this?"

I blinked at the seeming nonsensical question, then smiled dangerously. "Just The Agency."

He paled and if anything, his eyes got wider. "Oh shit," he muttered much to my amusement.

"So, where is Arnaud?"


	2. Chapter 2

_The author of the one quote I'd like to think I lived my life by also said, " 'Every man has his price.' This is not true but for every man there exists a bait which he cannot resist swallowing. To win over certain people to something, it is only necessary to give it a gloss of love of humanity, nobility, gentleness, self-sacrifice - and there is nothing you cannot get them to swallow. To their souls, these are the icing, the tidbit; the other kinds of souls have others."_

 _There once was a time when a shot in my arm had been my price… my bait, but now… now it was vengeance. You know, that dish best served cold?_

 _After a five year wait, that particular dish had grown positively frosty._

 _..._

I now worked for Arnaud. Weird but true.

Yeah, the man I said _no_ to back when this first started, fake shotgun blast to the head and all, I now worked for. Granted he had no clue about it, which was just how I, and the Official, liked it.

Thankfully, I didn't actually have to deal with him in person. One of us wouldn't survive it.

The guy we'd brought in, who had claimed to _be_ Arnaud, turned out to be his beard: first name of Rick, last name... unimportant. He played the part of The Phone so Arnie-dear didn't have to risk Chrysalis getting their hands on him again. Not that they were the only ones after him, just the most dangerous and the ones we - meaning the Agency - did not want them to finding him before we did. They already had too much Quicksilver information. Though it seemed Stark hadn't shared his toys and once he'd been removed from power had taken them with him. We watched him, and them, but didn't run into either of them very often.

A good thing in my opinion as Monroe had a tendency to kill Chrysalis members whenever she encountered them. And not quickly, either.

She seemed to enjoy dragging out the pain and increasing volume of the accompanying screams before sending them onto their final rest.

She'd played backup on several of these meets, when she'd been available and near enough to play with the rest of the team, but mostly she worked her own cases and we didn't see much of her these days.

That said, over the last several months, the buys had kind of become routine, an occasional change from the usual "save the world" type stuff Hobbes and I did, once he'd returned to active duty. Yeah, they only happened about twice a month, and involved quick junkets to various exotic locales like Minneapolis or Plainsboro. The travel had been a twist the Official hadn't been too thrilled about… at first anyway. But the money he stole from Arnie had been more than enough to cover the comparatively minor cost of sending me and a couple other agents off to handle the transactions. Doing _this_ had been my way of finally getting to Arnaud.

It just hadn't worked out that way.

The Official liked the status quo. I cut the deal with Arnaud's clients, and Eberts tracked the money electronically. Hobbes, Monroe or whoever ended up being lead this time around and other suits tracked the product and arrested everyone and secured the goods before they reached their ultimate intended destination. However, since Arnie still got his money he didn't care if the recipient of his bounty got picked up a few days later. His payments went to the stereotypical untraceable offshore account. Eberts, with a slick hack siphoned a portion off for the Agency, but otherwise let the money be. Arnaud would move it at his end, eventually laundering it and making it appear legit and then turning it into the next sale item.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Eberts might know where the money went, but still had no clue where Arnaud actually had chosen to live out his days.

The beard had insisted Arnie was not in the US; avoided it, in fact, because of the Agency.

Eberts could only track the money so far, but was reasonably certain that it's final destination wasn't in the US any more than Arnaud.

My cut went into a different account that I, of course, never got to touch. The Official gleefully confiscated every penny and used it to supplement the Agency's withering budget.

It pissed me the hell off. I took the risks and got nothing more than my usual crappy pay.

To say that after all these years I wanted more would be a serious understatement. Part of me wished that I had never said yes to my brother and had stayed a thief, though I knew that life would have ended badly for me. Plus, I'd discovered I had a good guy streak; saving the day filled something in me that I had never known was empty before being forced into working for the Agency.

But the life as an invisible hero had soured. Doing good, yeah, I could still get into that.

But I needed more.

Wanted more.

Wanted a life and maybe... love.

All of which I'd be without as so long as I worked for the Fat Man, and the government.

Hobbes managed to have a life outside of work even though he still mooned over Claire. Monroe definitely had a life, and at least a dozen lovers I knew of even while she still searched for her son.

Claire… well, Claire did her best to keep work and her private life separate. She was the Keeper for us and Claire for whomever she spent her off hours with. We knew she had someone, we'd seen the paperwork Eberts had run, vetting the man, but we'd never met him and probably never would.

Hobbes hated that she'd found someone, and drowned his sorrows by playing his textile magnate role and sleeping around as much as he could manage.

I remained envious... and alone.

Even more so because Bobby had been snubbing me since the Keep had deemed him fit for duty. I mean, c'mon; he'd been down for almost three months. Of course I did the jobs without him. I _had_ to. It's not like I hadn't kept it in the family: I'd gone with Monroe when possible, but others as well, Simmons, Green, Franklin. Typically four man teams, which had always been more than enough to follow and take down the buyers once off site.

We _never_ did the take downs at the meets. Didn't want Arnaud to get suspicious. Plus, they'd be forced to _arrest_ me as well, and if that got back to Arnie, he'd probably find another patsy to play the role.

And the Official most certainly didn't want that. His money train would suddenly stop. The greedy bureaucrat.

Though, truth be told, if I was on this particular gravy train, I wouldn't let it stop either.

Which is why Hobbes looked like he'd been through hell.

Something had gone wrong after this last meet. I'd done my part and returned to home base du jour - a decent motel in Philly - but the team had lost track of the goods.

And now that we were back home and the Official had done his official debriefing my partner had chosen to spread the misery around by going after me.

"Who you been talking to, Fawkes?" he asked, making me feel as if this were an interrogation instead of a conversation to kill time while waiting for an assignment.

I looked up from the magazine I'd been thumbing through, my feet propped up on his desk. "Uh, you mostly. I don't really hang out with anyone else." True enough. Yeah, I went out and did stuff in my free time, but they weren't friends by any stretch of the imagination.

"Three times now. Three buys we haven't scored the goods on. Someone must be talking." He narrowed his eyes at me, trying to see through me and find guilt that didn't exist.

I lowered the magazine to my thighs, fingers tightening slightly about the paper feeling irritated and dismayed. "Hobbes," I began in an overly calm voice, "it's Arnaud. No way in _hell_ I'd give him a heads up a raid was coming. I want him dead, remember?"

"Right, 'cause you ain't having no fun playing in the big leagues. You demanded this job, maybe it's 'cause you see it as a way out."

"Hobbes-"

"Going back to the dark side just like I always feared…"

" _Hobbes-_ "

"Well, not on my watch, Fawkes. I'll put you away myself before that happens," he finished, having ignored my attempts to knock him off track.

"Hobbesy," I said with a sigh and shake of my head. "I'm sorry the 'Fish took it out on you, but I swear it wasn't me. I doubt it was any of us. Bad guys ain't stupid, it's probably gotten out that others have been waylaid after the meets." I shrugged, not certain if my words were getting through to him. He had a full mad on and had chosen to burn it away on me. "Sometimes the good guys lose."

"Not me. Not us. Monroe didn't lose a single one and-" he choked off the rest of the sentence, but it didn't matter, I knew how it would've ended. _"I've lost three."_

I rubbed my face in my hands, ignoring the magazine as it slid off my legs and onto the floor with a soft swish of paper on denim. "Bobby, do you really think it would have mattered if Monroe had been there instead?" I shook my head. "Even I know that's not true. And, in case you have forgotten, there were other agents there. Wasn't it their fault too?"

Hobbes managed to glare at me, but didn't say a word.

"So, you'd rather believe one of us, that I, was dirty than the buyers had half a brain? Why Hobbes?" I really wanted to know. He'd been distant for a while now, but I thought it was just because he'd taken longer than expected to recover. Bowling night had been out of the question given the damage to his shoulder. He still did physical therapy to keep the muscles as mobile as possible. It had been tough though, and while the Keep had cleared him for duty, he acted as if he didn't deserve it. Like maybe he should've taken an early retirement instead of coming back to work. I felt kinda bad about that, since I'd been waiting impatiently to get my partner back and made sure everyone had been annoyingly aware of that fact.

I'd pushed and bugged and complained until Claire had finally given the okay, but I suspected that Hobbes should not have come back into the field, that he should be riding a desk for the remainder of his career. But that… that would kill him even more surely than a bullet to the head.

I needed to fix this, but I had no idea how.

"Hobbes, you've read the reports, right? That they've been using jammers at some of the meets to prevent us from being recorded. I had to stop wearing the earwigs and wires 'cause of that. That I've had to threaten them to get them to turn them off just to make the sale? You know the computers won't connect to the servers with them on." The look on his face didn't change, and I couldn't figure out why. Unless something had gone on behind the scenes that I wasn't aware of, which could be entirely possible. I generally hadn't been in on the wrap ups of the meets. The need to keep my role separate from the Agency, one that had been enforced stringently. My whereabouts were always tracked to some degree, but via far more conventional means, my cell phone and such. I wore no tracking devices, or listening devices anymore. Yeah, dangerous in some ways, but aside from some macho breast beating, the buys had all gone smoothly.

And maybe that was the problem; I'd been doing fine without him.

When he'd been down and out I hadn't really discussed the jobs with him, not wanting him to feel left out, but apparently, he still felt left out because I hadn't done a download with him afterwards…

"Fawkes," Hobbes shook his head. "You're right. No reason anyone here would look for a payday from Arnaud. I mean, this job just _pays so well_ ," he snarked, tone dry as dust. He got to his feet, every muscle of his body tense.

"Hobbesy-"

"I got things to do, see you later, Fawkes."

And with that he left the office, the door clicking softly shut behind him and leaving me to wonder just what the hell had happened.


	3. Chapter 3

Some days this job sucked. Another deal, this one in Chicago, had gone fine at my end, but a complete mess for the team set to pick up the goods and make arrests. Two agents had been killed and another injured and all eyes had turned to Hobbes for an explanation. One he didn't have.

He had personally chosen everyone on the team after looking for any possible connection to Arnaud or the buyers. He'd wanted Monroe along, as if she were some lucky rabbit's foot or something, but she'd been on another assignment, one involving her preferred target: Chrysalis.

The buyers had distinctly slavic accents and looks, but that was about as much as I'd been able to infer. No jammers this time, so the entire convo had been recorded from a distance - parabolic mics still had their uses in the spy biz - we'd done the deal and gone our separate ways, just like always. I found out what happened hours later, but not from Hobbes. No, I got a call from Eberts wanting to know what the hell had happened and to tell me to get back to San Diego soonest. Given my flight was the next morning anyway, I couldn't see what all the rush was about.

Now, I know me and the other _real_ agents generally didn't get along all that well, what with all the seeming special treatment I'd gotten over the years, and not many had stayed for very long. Just a few besides Hobbes who were at the Agency for the long haul. So when I heard Green had been one of those killed, I'd been hit just as hard as everyone else.

The funeral had sucked.

No rain, because while it seemed to be traditional for those events, SoCal had been deep in a drought for several years already and we were months away from the so-called rainy season. The day dawned bright, beautiful, and completely depressing.

Hobbesy wasn't talking to me or Claire or anyone near as I could tell and had clearly chosen to blame himself for the deaths. Even Monroe didn't think it had been the fault of anyone on our side, she'd looked over the mission specs and what we'd done and according to her we'd followed the playbook perfectly. It had been an ambush, which suggested they'd known we'd be coming. How they had acquired that knowledge stumped all of us.

I'd bet even dollars it had not been anyone on the team. Eberts claimed there was no malware on the office system or the laptop and phone I carried for the job. Nothing appeared to be out of place, and yet everything kept going wrong. But never before the money got to Arnaud. Always after, which made me agree that something hinky had been going on.

I'd wanted to go hang with Bobby, maybe try to convince him it hadn't been his fault when he clearly had chosen to blame himself, but he'd brushed me off yet again and I'd lost him in the traffic that had decided to be crazier than normal. I'd driven by his place, but he hadn't been there and after a couple hours of fruitless searching I gave up and went home to drown my sorrows alone.

Turned out the cupboard was pretty damn bare alcohol-wise, so after downing a pair of longnecks, and the smidge of peach vodka I found buried in the back of the fridge, I pondered how else to make this drunk a worthwhile one. Though peach? Really? I couldn't even remember buying it, but that didn't stop me from drinking it and praying the buzz would be enough to let me sleep.

The buzz turned out to be enough to keep me from driving, but not nearly enough to satisfy my need to drown the multitude of sorrows hanging over me like my own personal gloomy weather system. I looked about my apartment with growing dismay. I could wait till the buzz wore off or… the box on my pool table caught my eye. It had arrived two days ago, hours after a text informing me to _check my box_. Given we'd just completed a buy, the one that had resulted in three funerals and one seriously disillusioned Agency, I doubted it had been another job and it hadn't been.

It had been a bonus of sorts. Not monetary, but a bottle of higher end scotch. I'd never heard of it and been forced to use Google in order to discover the name and all the info that went along with it. I typically did bourbon when going for hard liquor, thus my confusion at the peach vodka I'd found in my apartment. Guess Ricky was a scotch man.

Now, did I want any part of a gift from Arnaud?

No. No. And no fucking way in hell.

But...

Did I want… No, make that, need to get stinking drunk?

Oh, fucking hell yes.

With a growl of frustration I stalked over to the pool table, ripped the box off the bottle, wiggled the cork out of the top and proceeded to down a quarter of the pale amber liquid without pausing for air.

I felt the heat in my chest, but no burn at all. Christ this stuff was smooth. Which could be a bad thing, as once I had caught my breath I took another long swallow, this time savoring the flavor as it paused on my tongue.

I held the bottle firmly in my hand as I moved over to the couch and settled into it, stripping off my jacket and tie in between swallows of the whisky. I didn't bother turning on the TV, there would be no distraction for me right now. Now was my time to wallow, to be angry and sad, to rail against the vagaries of the world even though I knew it would be no better than beating my head against the wall.

Still I wanted the cathartic release a good drunk would give me.

It would be better if Bobby were here to wallow with me, but he didn't want my company. Either as a friend or a partner it seemed. Which made me feel just so much better after this whole mess.

I looked down at the bottle in my hand, the buzz upping a notch, thank god, and I made a decision to save half for another time. Fair bet I would need another binge in the future, the way my life had been going lately.

Another swallow, then I carefully put the cork back in place and set the bottle on the coffee table and tried to sit back up but failing, arms propped along my thighs, feeling more than a touch lost without my partner here to commiserate with.

"Damn it, Hobbes," I groused leaning back into the cushions of the couch wondering what to do next.


	4. Chapter 4

I had my feet up on the dash and the seat shoved back as far as I could manage, still barely enough for my long legs, but it allowed me to slouch down just enough to catch a doze, which I had failed at miserably even though the stake out had become boring as fuck. I'd finished my book two hours ago and Hobbes hadn't said more than two words to me since we'd parked here just after oh-six-hundred.

I felt like crap. The scotch adventure had given me a hangover of epic proportions that had seemingly decided to remind me of my stupidity even days later. Hobbes's cold shoulder hadn't helped much either. Yeah, I get he was upset about the deaths, but he wasn't alone in that.

We needed a vacation, a chance to clear our heads without the shadow of yet more work that would do little else than remind us that we might be the next to get killed with little or no warning. Yeah, the job could be dangerous, we all knew that, but we hadn't lost an agent since Arnaud had escaped.

And to think it had been Arnaud who had set the Agency on this current path, one that had turned my friend back into a baby-sitter following my every move because a few meets had gone wrong. Horribly wrong in the case of the most recent one… and I was no closer to getting my hands on Arnaud.

I didn't really blame Bobby, I mean, I was a thief after all and made no bones about that fact.

But… until recently, until this undercover job, I hadn't felt quite so alone. Hobbes'd had my back no matter what, but lately it felt more like he was just waiting for me to fall, for any excuse to toss about blame and accusations, and since I always walked away unscathed little wonder the finger pointing had turned to me.

But only from Bobby.

The Official just continued to rake in the extra cash and smile about it. Oh, he'd made all the right noises at the funerals, but that had been it. No call to cut the job short, no interest in pushing further to actually get to Arnaud, and that made Bobby even more paranoid than usual.

See, what Bobby didn't know and that I _knew_ , thanks to a bit of invisible snooping was exactly how much the 'Fish had actually been siphoning off and how little of it made it into the pockets of the agents working for him. As in _lots_ and _none._ And while I admit to not really giving a hang about the others, I did care about Bobby. And, based on the last few weeks, he had to be about ready to get out of the spy business, and he would be unable to on the pitiful pension he'd slaved away for his whole career. No, scratch that, he _needed_ to get out. He was tired and had never really recovered from the wounds inflicted at that fateful meeting with Rick-the-beard.

He'd never admit it of course, not wanting to be forced into retirement, but both me and the Keep could see it.

The spirit remained willing, but the body…

So, in the spirit of never bailing on your partner I'd upped my little rainy day fund project with the idea of taking Hobbes with me when I ran. He'd resist at first, but once parked on a beach with frilly drinks complete with umbrellas and all the perfect female flesh we could handle he'd relax, perhaps for the first time since we'd met.

Hell, I had enough stashed away that we could run now, but two things kept me here: Hobbes saying no and the need to dish out a little vengeance on Arnaud's smarmy person before I took off.

I'd left enough unfinished business in my life, this one time I intended to follow through. I just need to get my partner back first.

But that meant coming clean about my plans.

The threat of the Madness had never made me feel quite so abandoned and alone as I had for the last several months. Yeah, I'd been doing a lot of off the books work in my efforts to draw out Arnaud - with no success, mind you - and to do that I'd shut Bobby out a bit, not that that had been hard given the way he'd shoved me aside since being declared fit for duty. He'd be forced to tell the 'Fish and then I'd be back in a jail cell, or worse the padded room until I'd learned my lesson and chose to behave again.

Any agent could play the part of the Arnaud's front man thanks to the way we'd set things up. The only reason I'd gotten the role is because I'd pushed for it, insisted on it, and the fact that The Agency had an unlimited cash cow till the little shit got caught didn't hurt, and had been the leverage I'd used to get him let me do this.

Arnaud was _mine_. No way in hell I would let anyone else arrest him. Not that arrest was my plan. No, I wanted to literally bust him. As in to pieces. Wanted to get my hands on him, around his throat, to squeeze until his legs twitched their last and his eyes went lifeless as I watched.

Hobbes wouldn't want any part of that.

Bobby might just help.

Trouble was, I couldn't ask Bobby without Hobbes overhearing.

Yes, I knew they were the same person.

Didn't change the fact that I didn't know which one of them I could trust.

Next to me Hobbes sighed heavily and knocked me out of my close eyed musings. Not quite asleep, but gone enough to look over everything a bit dispassionately. Plus the sunlight hurt like a bitch even with the dark sunglasses on.

"Fawkes, what is up with you lately?"

I twitched. I honestly thought he hadn't noticed given the grand snubbing he'd been giving me lately. "Nothing as usual."

Hobbes shook his head and lowered the binoculars he'd been staring out the windshield with for hours now, as unmoving as a statue.

I muttered imprecations under my breath, knowing I'd have to tell him something or he'd just start creating worst case scenarios in his head until he slapped a pair of cuffs on me and dragged me into the Agency for an impromptu interrogation. I saw his jaw clench and knew he wasn't going to let this go until I'd spilled something of importance, so to keep from telling him everything running through my head out of sheer frustration, I gave him something else to chew on. I mean it didn't have to be the heart of the issue, but hey, I wasn't exactly short on reasons to be moody these days.

"We lost three guys this week, Hobbes, and it made me realize I want more than just the Agency and the daily risk of death by high speed projectile. I want a life and I know there's no way for me to have one so long as I work for the Agency," I kept my voice soft, so he knew I was serious, which I was even if this particular gripe hadn't been the one I'd been spending most of my time brooding on.

"That the reason for the bender you went on?" He still hadn't turned to look at me, but it wasn't as if the evidence of my overindulgence couldn't easily be seen on my face.

I shrugged. "Yeah. Green had kids, a wife, parents who gave a damn and had no clue he was putting his life at risk for god and country." I turned away to gaze out at the boring view out the passenger window. "I ain't even got you these days."

Hobbes chose to ignore that shot across the bow and said, "No one said you can't have those things, Fawkes, but I ain't exactly seen you make any effort to find anyone." He fiddled with the binoculars then put them on the dashboard and turned to eye me, concerned at the gloomy turn the conversation had taken.

"Not that you've noticed," I muttered under my breath.

"Fawkes," he warned, his voice a low rumble that said he was quickly losing his patience with the subject.

"Look, it's not like I can really get into a relationship while what I can do is still top secret."

Hobbes blinked. "Uh, thought the Keep fixed the Madness problem?"

He truly sounded confused, which would've made me laugh except for the fact that he hadn't thought it all the way through sorta pissed me off.

"Hobbes," I said through gritted teeth. "Kinda hard to get my groove on when I disappear just as the fun begins."

A blatant lie, but he wouldn't know that.

Yeah, back in the bad old days with the Madness, it would have been an issue, and given I couldn't exactly practice my control without needing extra counteragent, which had never been allowed, I only experimented when needs demanded it, but once the toxin producing genes had been removed from the gland and I'd been one hundred percent certain I would no longer go Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs when I used too much Quicksilver, I practiced.

A lot.

Hell, it had taken a lot of practice to learn to control the Quicksilver enough to be able to do one eye at a time, to keep it under my clothes for the job, so I knew it would be possible to stay visible even through sex and, after a couple months, I'd taken the practice to live testing with very few issues. Yes, that did indeed mean I'd had sex, protected, of course , I'd learned my lesson with Allianora, but they'd been casual lays that served their purpose for the experiment I'd been conducting, but no more.

And, damn it, I _wanted_ more.

I wanted someone to come home to at night. Someone I looked forward to waking up with the next morning, making breakfast for… or with.

Doing nothing but sitting, reading a book together, or heading out to shoot pool, or anything else we could enjoy as a couple.

But I had to be careful about sharing _who_ I was without being to share _what_ I was. I was tired of holding back. I wanted to be with someone who knew all of what I had been: thief, ex-con, spy, invisible man, and that liked me for me, flaws and all.

I didn't want a relationship based on lies. Not this time.

Even if I couldn't just tell all on the first date, or even the first night we slept together, or eventually after years together, be able to tell the truth of everything I had been or done, I still wanted the chance.

And that hadn't been possible since coming to the Agency.

Hobbes's eyebrows rose as he stared at me. "Really? Keep never mentioned that."

"Well, I should fucking hope not," I grouched.

Hobbes's lip twitched and I did my best death glare, just daring him to make some smartass comment on the subject.

He wisely chose not to push the envelope this time. "Doesn't mean you shouldn't _try_ ," he insisted. "You need more than just my handsome face for your after-hours fun."

Not that I'd had much of that lately. "No shit," I complained, "but with who, and more importantly, how?" I shook my head, hair falling into my eyes and I glanced at the floorboards between my feet. "I'm not an idiot, Hobbes. The only way for me to get a chance at something more is to get out of this business and since that can't happen until the gland is removed…" I shrugged. I knew the score, knew that the gland would only come out at the cost of my life. So, it would be one or the other: invisible man or dead man.

And if I was gonna die I would do it my way and take Arnaud out with me.

"Fawkes, what can I do to help? If you find the right girl, the Official could get her clearance. Low at first, but-"

"No, Hobbes, I would just put her in danger. The creeps we go after could use her to get to me." I sighed heavily, raising my head to meet my partner's concerned gaze. "No, so long as I'm here…"

Hobbes set a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Partner, I get, really. It's why covert agents have a cover persona."

I raised an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah, too little too late in your case," he agreed. "I wish things could be different for you. Wish you could have your cake and eat it too. Hell, you deserve it, but this life is a hard one. And it's harder with a family."

"Yeah, I figured that out. Doesn't mean I don't want one," I grumbled, my attempt at distraction giving me a nasty case of the blues. Not what I wanted to deal with right now, but it happened now and then. Last time I'd slid down this particular slippery slope, gotten really low, I… well, it hadn't ended well.

"Fawkes, you ain't thinking of doing something stupid like running are you?"

Hobbes had moments when he got inside my head. He could be scarily perceptive, and truthfully, I _had_ been contemplating it for a very long time now. Once I had enough money stashed away I could bail and they'd never see me again. New name, new place, and all the money I'd ever need at my invisible fingertips. Park my ass on a beach in Bali and enjoy the spoils of war… or thievery, if you prefer. One big heist a year would keep me flush and off the grid for the rest of my natural life.

"No... or no more than usual. Bobby, I can't be the invisible man for the rest of my life. It'll kill me one way or another, but I don't know how to be anything else." Christ, I hated knowing that, knowing that the job would kill me.

"Yeah, it probably will," Hobbes agreed sounding morose. "Me too. The odds are not exactly in my favor when it come to dodging bullets forever, my friend."

I snorted in dark amusement. He wasn't wrong. Even invisible I'd been shot more than a few times. "Nah, you're too stubborn to die."

He nodded. "True enough. I worry about you, partner. I know I was on the bench for a while, but I didn't think you'd fall this far without me."

I hadn't. I would need to fall a lot further for _me_ to begin to worry. I'd done it before, taking that mental leap into misery and turned it into a physical one.

"I'm okay," I assure him, but it was obvious he didn't believe me.

"Liar," he muttered. "You're acting like you did a couple years ago, when you weren't talking to me. Remember?"

Of course I remembered. We'd had a mission end horribly wrong, not because we hadn't done our best - we all had - but we'd failed to save the day. Hell, even Monroe had taken a turn at drowning her sorrows with us.

Yeah, it had been _that bad._

"Yes," I whispered, the pain, and frustration, and the hopelessness crashing in on me as I thought about it. I hadn't realized how deep the depression at my current reality ran. Suddenly, I wished the subject had stayed on the embarrassment of sex, or the lack thereof, rather than how shitty my life truly had become.

"I just don't want you doing something stupid to get out of the Agency, is all. No, it ain't all hearts and flowers, but we do some good work, and if things go well we'll have Arnaud off the board soon."

"Something stupid?" I question, and regret it almost immediately.

"Like deciding to end it, Fawkes. I don't want you to ever even think that."

"Too late on that score," slipped past my lips before I got the chance to censor myself.

Hobbes froze in place for a long moment then seemed to deflate. "When?" he asked, voice painfully tight.

"Couple years ago," I saw the recognition in his eyes. "After _that_ mission," I admitted; with the cat out of the bag, why not? Besides it was kind of a relief to actually say the words, and I had no doubts he would keep it to himself. No tattling to Keepy or the 'Fish.

He rubbed his face in his hands. "How?" He glanced down at my wrists as if looking for scars.

He wouldn't find any. And even if I had gone that route I would have gone vertical, found the most prominent vein in my forearm and sliced up the length of it. Even if I'd been unable to do the second arm I would have bled out in minutes.

No, I had gone another route.

"Jumped off a bridge," I told him.

His eyes widened. "Which one?"

"Coronado," I shrugged.

"Fawkes," the glare was spotlight bright.

"Not the full two hundred feet, admittedly, but more than high enough to get the job done," I told him, but I could see he was still waiting for the punch line.

"No way you coulda gotten out that far without someone trying to stop you," he pointed out, that hint of disbelief hurting in ways I hadn't expected. Did I lie to my partner? Now and then. Did I hide things from him? Oh hell yes. Had to if my mad scheme would ever have a chance of working. But something like this? I couldn't lie even if I wanted to.

"Hobbes," I began tone sad, "how can they stop what they can't see?"

"Shit," he muttered as the truth sank in and hesitant, if sad, belief sank into him. "Then how are you here?"

I shrugged. "Not a clue. Went over the rail see-through, came to on shore with nothing but soggy clothes and few bruises for my trouble."

He grunted, eyes filled with pain. "I'm sorry."

"For what? It wasn't anything you did." None of the blame for what I had done, for how low I had fallen, or for my decision belonged to Bobby.

"For not seeing it."

"You weren't exactly at the top of your game at the time. That mission... it hit all of us hard and... and I wanted out. I was done and the Official wouldn't let me go."

"What do you mean 'wouldn't let you go'?"

I rubbed the back of my head certain this admission would not go over well. "I quit. Gave him six months to find some other sucker, but made certain he knew I wanted out."

"And he told you no."

I nodded. "Said I couldn't leave till he got his property back." I had really and for true hated the Official in that moment, but I'd been stuck with it. So, not willing to continue on with the state of affairs I'd made a life-changing decision and followed through.

"And you thought… death," Bobby damn near choked on that word, "was the only option?"

I nodded slowly. "Seemed like the only one at the time."

"Idiot," he muttered, though I had to wonder if it was me or himself he referred to. "Next time, Fawkes, tell me you're that bad off. I'll back you in whatever you need."

I whipped my head about to stare at him. "Do you really mean that?"

He nodded. "Yeah, Fawkes, I do. Why?"

" 'Cause I intend to end my special mission with one very dead Phone."

Hobbes chuckled softly. "You can deal with him however you want once you've got him in hand. I told you that before, back the first time you went silver-eyed. You think I wouldn't do the same now?"

I smiled and held out my hand for a low five.

Things between us... _we_ fell back into place with that hand-slap. A little truth that turned into a lot, and a partnership got back on solid ground.

...

 _Ann Rand, who had a very... unique vision of man and all his works also had more than a few very good points to make about mankind. "A viler evil than to murder a man, is to sell him in suicide as an act of virtue. A viler evil than to throw a man into a sacrificial furnace, is to demand that he leap in, of his own will, and that he build the furnace, besides."_

 _Kind of like the unhappy version of have your cake and eat it too. I'd eaten of this particular cake and hadn't cared for it much afterwards. Though at the time I'd wanted nothing more than to go very gently into that goodnight, even if it did involve forceful contact with deep water at terminal velocity. Should've created an impressive splat and lists of broken bones and yet..._

 _Yet I had walked away physically unharmed for the most part._

 _It should have depressed me even more, but part of me decided that if I had survived it must have been for a reason. I just had to figure out what it was._


	5. Chapter 5

I ambled into his office with my hands stuffed in my pockets, hoping Bobby felt better than he looked. I decided to ask. "How ya feeling, Hobbesy?" I could only hope it was better than me. The headaches had decided to move in to stay for a while. A couple shots of whisky before bed would allow me to sleep reasonably well and painkillers during the day helped, but nothing seemed to make it go away entirely. I hadn't told the Keep mostly due to her seeming infinite need to to run a few tests that I had no interest in.

My partner twitched and grunted, his head snapping around to aim a glare at me.

I hadn't meant to startle him, not like I'd been sneaking up behind him or anything, but I had a tendency to not tromp around. Being heavy-footed gets you caught in both of my current professions and the last thing I wanted was another stint in prison. Or the padded room for that matter.

Damn, I hated that I spent most of my recent life _not_ doing things I wanted just because my boss would pitch a fit. I deserved to enjoy life, not just live it.

"I'm fine, Fawkes. As you well know," he grumbled, a frown on his face.

A lie of sorts, anyway. Considering the damage he'd taken half a year ago, he'd been doing pretty, but at our last bowling night he'd admitted to not feeling as spry as he used to. A hitch in his chest when he ran too much or too hard. He'd never gotten full rotation back in his right arm, which occasionally left him struggling when it came to hand to hand combat. He compensated pretty well, but had been caught short on few times. He should probably be on desk duty, but I would not give up my partner, even to his detriment apparently.

Bobby Hobbes, best spy on the planet (according to that very same Bobby Hobbes), had gotten old and it showed. He just could not move or react as fast as he used to. He'd been in his forties, though how far he had never said, when I came barging into his comfy existence, wet behind the ears and far more naive than could ever be healthy for a spy. I'd survived mostly through luck, his skills and by being too smart for my own good.

Good thing I'd decided to include him in on my retirement plan. He'd be forced to come after me on orders anyway, might as well bring him along… or just let him catch me and convince him to stay instead of taking me in. He'd sided with me when I'd gone silver-eyed that first time and there'd been five million dangling in front of his nose. Yeah, I know it hadn't been the money that had kept him by my side, but his loyalty and I suspected that would still be true now. Orders from the Official to retrieve his property - meaning the gland and not the receptacle - notwithstanding.

He'd would track me, find me, and then park his ass on the beach beside me to wile away our days in relative comfort.

Or so I hoped.

Keepy had said that I should be able to live the rest of my life without any complications due to the gland. No guarantees on how long that life might be; the gland could kill me next week as easily as a bullet. How hard the Official would come after me remained the question. I had the feeling Keepy had been working on contingency plans should I be unable to continue with my duties for the Agency. Perseus had reopened a couple years back, supposedly to allow a safer place to perform the necessary research that might get the gland out of my brain successfully before I grew too old to give a damn about it, but I suspected other projects had been ongoing, such as that QS Backpack Mai Lin had left behind.

Or, far more likely in my opinion, new glands, ones that wouldn't turn their owner's brains into so much Alpo. I knew the 'Fish wouldn't share his toys, but create new and improved ones?

In a cold, calculated heartbeat.

I could only hope the Keep... that Claire had insisted on the removal of the Madness genes before she went ahead and implanted another one. I'd wish that horror on no one, except maybe Arnaud, who deserved to be miserable, in need, and desperate for a few decades before being permitted release through a bloody and painful death.

Then again, he had been there. He'd had a gland with supposedly the same exact flaws as mine, which meant the Madness. Yet, when we'd gone after his invisible ass he'd never shown any sign of it. Yeah, he'd gotten stuck invisible, but he'd found a work-around for that as well; those masks. Cloned tissue that could be worn over his own, making him look like anyone he had enough DNA of to copy. Hell, if it hadn't been for his own personality sneaking through, we'd might have never figured out that he'd been playing the part of Eberts for the fair part of a week. Only Hobbes, whose loathing of the Official's toady could only be surpassed by his ability to spot something hinky, had noticed.

And that had been how Arnaud had stayed under the radar all this time. He could change his face into anyone else, the DNA, if tested, revealing the copy and not the original. Wouldn't pass a blood test, but hair or skin would be able to fool most anyone.

Still, that didn't stop those hunting him, just made the job a bit trickier. For the Agency, for Interpol, for Stark, and Chrysalis. Arnaud had gone through any number of beards before we'd stumbled upon Rick, who'd only had the job for eight months or so. Who knew how many had been captured by Stark and killed out of sheer annoyance when it became clear they had no idea where their boss had hidden himself.

Chrysalis probably had given up on finding Arnaud for the time being, after so many fakes, there was little point in going after him. They already had his gland, after all, and all the tech they needed to reverse engineer a brand new one designed to suit their whims and goals. Whatever their crazy-ass goals might actually be.

And yet… yet there had been nothing for the nearly half decade since that last encounter with those invisible cancer-killing-corn-eating grasshoppers. We knew they hadn't left town or anything. Knew about the power shift to this Tabitha chick over Stark, that the Camps still existed - though Monroe had taken over the majority of the work on that - that they still waited on some great cataclysm to give them the leverage they needed to take over, but other than that the pot hadn't been stirred much. Monroe's hatred of them had forced them to be a bit more subtle in the U. S. of A., and they'd set up headquarters elsewhere around the globe. But being in another country didn't slow Alex down much. The Agency fell through the cracks and she could hunt bad guys pretty much anywhere on the planet. And if for some reason a _no_ came down from the powers that be, Monroe would make a call and it, along with the person idiotic enough to utter said negative, would suddenly no longer be in the position they had temporarily attained.

There remained a lot left for the Agency to do as far as cleaning up that mess was concerned. I, however, no longer had any interest in doing it. Time, perhaps, to hand the torch to younger agents who actually wanted to be here risking life and limb for God and Country.

If _I_ had become tired of the work, how exhausted must _he_ feel these days?

I sat down on the edge of his desk. "Bobby, truth. Please."

The please seemed to startle him.

He shrugged, wincing as he did so, his right side reminding him he would never been that insanely brave twenty-something ever again. "Been better. Pulled something. It hurts. I'll deal."

He turned away from me, back to the computer screen and whatever paperwork he'd been doing to fill time. I couldn't fix him. He had been broken... almost as badly as I had been, though in different ways. He _needed_ out. I _wanted_ out. An important difference, but the goal was the same, either way.

I nodded, though he didn't see it, accepting his words as they were even though I knew for him to admit pain (candy for the focused mind) it had to be bad. The thing of it was, I suspected while his injuries might actually be bothering him, the truth probably had more to do with all the meets that had gone wrong on his watch. And while the 'Fish had taken his pound of flesh out of Bobby for it, I knew it hadn't been his fault.

We didn't always catch the bad guys.

Or save the day.

And sometimes… sometimes people got seriously hurt because of that. That job that had driven me to try to kill myself had been a prime example of that.

Hobbes had been damaged, watched others partner me while he'd been out of the game and then come back to FUBARs and SNAFUs that he blamed on not being good enough. Blamed himself for the deaths of three agents who had done nothing more than follow his orders.

And sadly I feared it had become true. This was a hard life and eventually you had to stop doing it either because you got too old, too hurt, or got yourself killed.

Hobbes had hit points one and two but felt he had no place else to go. No retirement plan in place that did not involve a hole six feet deep and a twenty-one gun salute. I didn't want him to be forced out by number three, so I would have to work my con-man magic and convince him it had come time to move on. Hell, maybe I _should_ run and then after an appropriate amount of time, let him _catch me_ , only instead of letting him bring me back to the oh so loving bosom of the Agency I convince him to stay. Talk him into a week more that could easily become two, and three and then forever. He deserved it even more than I did and I would make it happen even if I had to trick him into it.

Not the first time I'd considered that plan, but maybe the first time I'd been fully serious about it. But it would have to wait just a tiny bit longer.

"Got another meet, wanna tag along?"

His ears perked up for an instant then his shoulders dropped. "Monroe's in town, take her."

I shook my head even though he still hadn't turned to look at me. "Nuh-uh. She's not my partner, you are."

I could see the frown, his brow wrinkling and corner of his mouth turning downward. "Fawkes, you don't want me there."

"Hobbes, I will always need you to watch my back," I told him, dead serious. "I'll just let the 'Fish know I have to reschedule." Damn it. I knew he figured the fucked up ones were all his fault, but I refused to let him take the blame, even if it was self-inflicted. Our bitching over beers hadn't cleaned out the wounds caused by the botched missions as it usually did.

He grumbled and muttered under his breath. "You can't, you know that. He'll just have someone else do it and the Agency won't be able to recover the... whatevers and make the arrests. Who knows who'll get hurt?"

"Exactly, my friend," I said, setting one hand solidly on his good shoulder and squeezing to make sure he understood that I wanted this, wanted him with me through thick and thin. It had been rocky the last few months, what with me sowing my wild thieving oats and all, and his sudden lack of self-confidence, but I knew he would always have my back even if I had to shame him into it. "Hobbesy, unless _you_ were the one giving away our plans none of it was your fault." His head snapped up to level a steely glare at me. I raised my hands to tick the points off on my fingers. "We changed the team every time. We waited till the last possible moment to make the arrangements, including picking who would go. We monitored all outgoing communications from our side. Eberts scrubbed the computer systems and searched everyone's emails." I leaned down a bit to look him right in the eyes. "It was bad luck, nothing more."

He sighed heavily, meeting my gaze for half a second and no more. "I'm the one common factor in the screw ups. Best to remove me from the picture."

"So, you're admitting to being the mole?" I asked knowing exactly what reaction I'd get.

"What? No. I would never…" he sputtered to a halt when he saw the smirk on my face.

"Point made," I stated, though I could see he wasn't quite convinced. "So, why not? A real reason."

He sighed heavily. "Fawkes, I'm not much use right now and we both know it. Keep has me doing physical therapy, but it's taking a helluva lot longer than both of us like."

He rubbed the top of his head, the little hair left up top sparse, but still dark. His hair hadn't turned gray anywhere that I could tell. Either that or he dyed it, which I could see him doing for the job, maybe, but he'd never been anything but confident about his looks and his ability to charm his way into a pair of pants, or under a skirt, or lab coat, or anywhere else for that matter. Either that, or he'd won the hair color genetic lottery and was one of the lucky ones who stayed natural till late in life, even if he hadn't managed the same coup with hair quantity. Either could be possible.

"You'd be better off with an agent that can actually do the damn job."

I could hear the frustration in his voice, his need to be of value, and his firm belief that he no longer could be.

"And I'm saying I won't do it without you. Pick the team you want for backup. Hell, ask Monroe to the party. She always finds these things entertaining, but you _will_ be there. I ain't catching Arnie without you."

He raised an eyebrow with me. "Something you know?"

I shrugged. I _knew_ nothing, but given this meet had come just a few weeks after the last instead of the more usual couple or three weeks... Yeah, my hinky alarm had gone off.

Hobbes looked me over cautiously, sizing me up to see if I was bullshitting him, but in the end nodded reluctantly. "I'm in."


	6. Chapter 6

_Herman Melville, a great American author by all accounts once wrote, "Where does the violet tint end and the orange tint begin? Distinctly we see the difference of the colors, but where exactly does the first one blending enter into the other. So with sanity and insanity."_

 _I'd left my days of insanity behind when Claire had followed her heart instead of the Official's orders._

 _Or so I thought..._

 _..._

Interesting thing about playing beard, the jobs rarely took place in my backyard. The only one that had taken place in San Diego had been the one where we'd caught dear ol' Rick. I'd been all over the country and well as Mexico, Canada, and once to Cuba. That one had been a bitch to arrange, but Monroe had pulled all the right strings and we'd gotten it done. Caught the buyers off the coast of Florida a few days later thanks to several well placed tracking devices. That had been the only job where'd I'd stuck around after to help. Picking them up in Cuba hadn't been a viable option so we'd been forced to let them go and hope we'd be able to pick 'em up later. A tropical storm had given us an assist, but once in American waters we'd conscripted a Coast Guard vessel and arrested them. I'd hung about solely to get the tracking devices onto the shipment after the actual sale had been completed. The only real option at the time, but it had gone off without a hitch.

Today we were in the lovely city of Oakland, California. Okay, the outskirts of said city, which we couldn't see anything of due to the heavy fog that had rolled in and decided to stay. See, when this job turned out to be local for all intents and purposes even Bobby had gotten suspicious.

The file I'd received included the GPS location to the container the product would be in. Needed given the sprawling nature of the port. The shipping container would be dropped off with me there, I'd open it with the magic key I'd received, show off the goods, collect payment, hand off the key and walk away, the container to be shipped out by the buyer. Whether on a truck, train or ship didn't matter to me and really was none of my business. I got paid no matter how little work I actually did.

Arnaud ended up a few million richer; me, or rather the Agency, a few or thousand, or even tens of thousands, depending on exactly how high the payment was. The Agency would track the product and buyers, picking them up later. Eberts's little program would follow the money, skimming some off as well. Plus, they'd collect any reward/bounty on the cargo/buyers should there be one. Money hand over fist for the Agency.

The chilly fog still blew slowly through the air like some cheesy movie special effect, reducing visibility to all but nothing, the looming stacks of containers well and truly invisible even though they were within spitting distance of me. Hobbes hated the unplanned cover, but the buyers probably loved it, as no satellite would be able to see anything of value even with IR systems up and running. Little red blobs on a screen didn't get you any information on _who_ they were.

I could hear movement out there, fog horns, ship horns, vehicles moving slowly through the complex, but couldn't see anything worth a damn. The deary gray sameness hovered over everything. There was a big ass bridge nearby that would probably look impressive - it had the previous day when we'd been scouting the location - but was now lost to sight thanks to mother nature's invisibility cloak. It got foggy in San Diego, but I don't recall ever seeing it this thick before.

I glanced at my watch, noting the buyers were indeed overdue, but given driving would be hazardous right now, could forgive the lapse.

So why did I have a feeling of uneasiness deep in my gut? The headache I'd been sporting for a couple days now pounded behind my eyes with a little more force than an hour ago, which didn't make my gut any happier, either. I wondered how long I was going to be stuck with the needles in my brain. Hell, I'd had it on and off for the last few weeks, ever since that well-deserved scotch bender I'd gone on. I'd cracked open that bottle a few more times since, the drink turning out to be quite tasty once I took the time to appreciate it. Sadly, it now sat empty on my kitchen counter, mostly to remind myself to pick up another one sometime in the future. Maybe I'd splurge after this job and share it with Hobbesy.

A well deserved treat to celebrate a job well done.

I turned my head at the sound of footfalls nearby.

I'd been expecting a group, so stood there dumbfounded when Arnaud came out of the fog smiling, gun pointed at me.

I'd been grumpy as shit all morning so the very last thing I needed was to get caught red-handed with my hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

"Fawkes, how good to see you."

He fired the gun and I twitched, but instead of a bullet, a dart hit me square in the chest. I pulled it out and flung it away, but the damage had already been done. The odd sensation spread out from where the projectile had struck home, sending me to my knees as my head exploded in agony. I ended up lying on my side, hands wrapped about my skull, wanting to dig in to get at the pain, I saw him reload the dart gun and pace slowly towards me, a wry grin on his face.

"What the fuck?" I complained bitterly as the pain upped another notch. I had no clue what he'd shot me with, but it clearly had not been a tranq of any kind.

"Ah, Fawkes, did you not think I would figure it out? That I would not follow up with my employees, especially those handling important transactions in my name?"

"Actually, I was hoping you would," I growled through the pain, my muscles twitching uncontrollably. Shit, what had he done to me?

He nodded slowly, still well out of reach even if I could manage to get my body under my control. "Of course," he agreed. "You still want your vengeance. I have a better offer for you."

"What could you possibly have to offer me besides your head on a pike?" I snarled at him from my prone position on the ground.

"Come now, Fawkes, I've told you before we are alike in many ways. Do you really think your… off-book forays have gone unnoticed by everyone? Come work for me."

"Never," I told him, the pain spiking up another notch, forcing me to curl in on myself in reaction.

He chuckled darkly. "Why not? You have been for most of a year now. Why not join me for real? I promise no one can top the money I can offer you."

I wanted to snap something snarking in rebuttal, but only a harsh whimper escaped past my lips, the pain taking over my entire existence for the moment.

"Fawkes, stop fighting it, you know it only makes it worse."

I froze in reaction, or tried to, my body twitching, forcing me to arch against the agony slicing through my brain. And that's when I realized exactly what had been happening to me. "How?"

He squatted down in my line of sight, the gun no longer in his hand. Instead he casually held a vial full of blue liquid between his fingers. "You enjoyed the scotch did you not?"

I groaned in utter dismay. I _knew_ it had come from him. But I'd been a complete idiot and assumed that the wool had been pulled so efficiently over his eyes that he had no clue his beard had been replaced. And now that gift horse had just smashed through my grand plans for revenge with the kind of rabid heat I thought I'd forgotten. Madness flared and coruscated through my field of vision as I stared back at him. I wondered if my eyes were shifting into the red zone yet…

"Do you really think Richard came to San Diego by accident?" Arnaud queried softly, confirming my worst fears: it went way beyond the damned scotch the whole fucking thing had been a set-up from the beginning. "Your Keeper should not have turned off the monitor."

"How do you know that?" I asked, even as I did as he'd suggested and stopped fighting the pain; it was time to let the Madness come full bore, no holds barred. The Madness was the one ally I had in this whole mess.

He laughed. "She still has my hard drive, which made it quite simple given the worm program buried in it. Once it had been connected to the main computer system at your Agency..." He shrugged. "You've not made a single move I was unaware of."

I dragged myself up to my knees. "Then why let us continue? You must be running out of clients by now."

"Not even close. For every one you arrest three more move in to buy what I offer. All of them wanting the newest toys in their efforts to destroy their rivals. I will happily, and profitably, sell to every single one of them. The skimming by you and your Agency is barely a drop in the _ocean_ of money I take in every month."

"Then why are you here now?" I ask, truly wondering.

He smiled pleasantly, his teeth gleaming weirdly in the diffuse, fog-silvered light. "I need to collect a few items in person and it seemed an opportune time to have a discussion with you, especially given that you clearly plan to leave the Agency in the near future." He cocked his head to the side. "Your Official may not be aware of your return to your former profession, but I assure you I am. Help me, and with a little creativity I should be able to get that gland out."

I shook my head, ignoring the burst of hope that kicks me in the gut. "You can't."

"True, but Stark can, we just need to steal the technique from their systems."

Not like I hadn't thought of that myself many a time since we'd rescued Arnaud from that vineyard, but I'd never really had the opportunity to try. The Official kept nixing the idea even when the Keeper made the suggestion. So I remained the possessor of one very abused Quicksilver gland that might never be removed from my almost as badly abused cranium.

"Or I could simply ask him. I imagine he'd be willing with only minimal persuasion."

I couldn't help it, I snorted in laughter. "Sure, why not, I'll offer him you in trade."

Arnaud waved off my threat, literally,and my eyes tracked the vial of Counteragent in his moving hand helplessly.

"Come now, Fawkes, do you really think I have managed to avoid Chrysalis all this time?" He shook his head in clear amusement. "Non. I cut a deal with him six months after I last saw you. A fair half of my clients, at least the ones you've dealt with, work for them in one way or another, even if they do not know it."

He stood and stepped away, while I lay there, my muscles frozen in shock. "Liar," I muttered, wanting his words to be anything but the truth, yet fearing they must be, simply because it made sense. Hell, we, the Agency, had been shocked that Arnaud had managed to remain free to roam about the cabin, his work only hamstrung and not stopped altogether. Now I knew why. He'd done the wisest thing in his situation, cut a deal that would leave him free and gain him a powerful ally. An ally that would open all kinds of new avenues to illicit and evilly gotten gains.

"Fuck," I muttered, seeing the jaws of the trap closing about me.

"The offer stands," he stated, looking down at me with a knowing smile, thinking he had won, but I wanted no part of it.

No, I had other plans for dear ol' Arnie.


	7. Chapter 7

_Gilda Radner, who spent much of her life making others laugh, most certainly had a more serious side. "I always wanted a happy ending... Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious ambiguity."_

 _At this point I had a pretty good idea how this meeting would end. How I wanted it to end, anyway._

 _Guess I should have hoped more for that delicious ambiguity, huh?_

 _..._

If the snake on the inside of my right wrist had been anything other than a rather boring tattoo in its current state it probably would have shown eight or nine segments bright red, my eyes a matching shade of crimson and the Madness unleashing that darker side I'd been listening to more and more often lately. The scotch had primed my system, the dart had sent me over the edge and, because I still had the gland, the symptoms had come screaming back. The voices, the pain, the tremors, all the warning signs I'd been assuming were caused by my increasingly frequent overindulgence. My eyes hadn't been red in the mornings due to lack of sleep, or too much booze, but from the early stages of Quicksilver Madness.

And I had never even suspected it.

"Well played, Arnie, I have to give you that much credit."

He smiled and shrugged, certain he'd won the game this time.

Not a chance in hell.

"Thing is you'd've been way better off negotiating with me before the drugs you just pumped me full of."

He shook his head. "Non. I have what you want most." He waved the vial of blue liquid in front of my eyes again, but what he failed to realize is that while full of the toxin at the moment, I had not had _any_ Counteragent since Claire had given me that last dose, the one that had also killed the toxin producing gene. The craving, the driving _need_ , to have that blue, burning liquid in my veins had not returned with the Madness.

I had not been addicted to the Counteragent in a very long time and without that free sample to tempt me into wanting more I had no interest much less need for it. And hell if I was going to sign up for the life of a hype again. If I played things right, it wouldn't even be on the menu.

I slowly got my feet under me in a runner's half crouch, feigning weakness that had seeped away as the crimson tide filled my skull. I kept my head down watching him through my lashes.

He pulled a syringe from another pocket, obviously expecting me to acquiesce, for me to beg him to inject me with a drug I no longer wanted or needed. Madness was infinitely preferable to addiction. I straightened, hyperaware of everything about me, and surged forward, like a sprinter off the blocks, batting the syringe and vial from his hands with an ease that once would have surprised me, but that I reveled in now.

I put my hands about his neck and began to squeeze. "You're wrong, Arnie. It's not Counteragent I want. What I want is you. Very, _very_ dead."

His face turned red, hands clawing at mine, eyes beginning to bulge out, a fair sign my grip was tightening over the right parts of his anatomy. I clenched my fingers more tightly. With a little more pressure, his the end would be coming soon. To make it more fun I lifted him off the ground wondering if I could snap his neck. Yeah, last time, with his back up against a wall it had been easier, but this time, I had a full toxin- fueled mad on and I didn't work out daily just for funsies. So, while it took some effort, getting his feet off the ground wasn't beyond my ability.

His eyes began to roll back into his head and his hands dropped away, I felt the feral grin spreading across my face and satisfaction settling in my muscles and bones. Arnaud twitched in my grip, his struggles growing weaker. It wouldn't be long now and I could finally move on knowing I'd finally gotten much needed vengeance for my brother. For Kevin.

My concentration was disturbed by a soft pop, but I refocused on the job at hand – in hand – and tightened my fingers. Or tried to…

Then... not pain so much as an odd draining sensation flowed through me. The strength of the Madness flowed out of my body like an ebbing tide and Arnaud's feet returned to the scarred concrete.

Another pop and I dropped him, staggering back confused.

He'd landed awkwardly on the pier, barely on his knees before me. The submissive posture sent inappropriate ideas for continued torture, distracting me for a minute. It was then I saw a small gun in one hand, his other supporting his weight. The chill fog swirled about us, muting everything, both life and sound, enveloping the world, our tiny portion of it anyway, in a sense of unreality.

I took a couple steps towards him, fighting the shiver of weakness washing through me, grimly determined to finish the job, but he firmed up his grip, the gun now pointed perfectly at center mass. I'd already taken a couple of shots from the twenty-two. They might not kill me, though given the amount of blood that had already stained my clothing and dripped on the ground to pool by my feet, I could be mistaken about that, but one in the chest probably would.

"Cheater," I complained bitterly, not wanting to lose, not wanting him to survive the death of another Fawkes brother.

He had to pay for Kevin, for me, for every moment of fear and pain, and suffering I had felt since I'd somewhat foolishly and desperately said yes to my brother in exchange for the worst get out of jail free card ever.

Arnaud got slowly to his feet, his throat already beginning to bruise. While I relished the pain he must be in, I wanted to finish the job. Bruises weren't going to satisfy my quest for vengeance, for either of the brothers Fawkes, but that gun pointing in my direction discouraged me, if only slightly.

"Sorry it had to end this way. We could have had a beautiful relationship." His voice was low and gravelly, but his eyes bright and that smirk, that irritating as fuck smirk of _I win again_ on his lips and making me want to smack permanently it from his pretty face.

Rage pulsed along my veins, throbbing with the elemental _need_ for another try at him, that rage my new Counteragent, but the gun in his shaking hand kept me immobile. That and the gathering darkness at the edge of my vision.

"Perhaps in another five years, oui? Should you survive, that is." He backed away towards the corridor of containers he'd come from when Bobby Hobbes made his grand entrance appearing out of the fog like a ghost.

"I don't think so, you Swiss Miss Motherfucker." He batted the gun out of Arnie's suddenly unresisting fingers, and that Colt, the preferred weapon of my savior, shoved into the man's side.

Arnaud sighed heavily and raised his hands in surrender.

Hobbes quickly and efficiently - and none too gently - forced Arnie to the ground, shoved a knee in the small of his back and handcuffed him. He stood, leaving one foot planted firmly on Arnie's backside then looked over at me, as he shoved the gun into his holster. The stacks of containers loomed around us, creating dark walls that shifted in and out of visibility as the fog oozed around everything. It had only grown thicker as my reality had tipped over on its side.

"Sorry I took so long. Little shit had a jammer… Fawkes, you're bleeding."

I nodded in agreement. No way to hide it given the trails of blood that betrayed my movements of the last few minutes. "Two rounds. I also have a touch of the QSM thanks to him." I waved at the terrorist lying prone on the ground, looking uncomfortable.

Hobbes's eyes widened with worry as he pulled out his radio and called for backup and an ambulance and God himself to get here and now.

I knew it wouldn't matter. Weakness sucked the life out of me more than the pain, which was only just starting to make its way past the Madness. I was as good as dead and I knew it. But I was going to make damned sure I took Arnaud out with me. "Bobby, do me a favor and meet them at the end of the row." I wanted to cough, but knew if I started it wouldn't stop until I had fallen over dead and I had things I needed to do first.

Hobbes glanced down at Arnaud to lay there with a put-upon expression on his face. "Fawkes-"

I cut off his words by the simple expedient of lifting my shirt and showing him the damage Arnaud's girly little weapon had done to me. The pain still had not exploded into my conscious awareness, the Madness probably overriding it and permitting me to act, but it would not last for much longer. Decision time; arrest him or finish him. End it, finally.

Right, like there had ever been the possibility of another ending.

Bobby's look hardened, understanding what I wanted and the fact that I did not expect to survive the encounter. He gave Arnaud a good tap with his foot to encourage him to behave, unholstered his weapon and held it out to me. I strode over, hiding the odd weakness in my knees that made me want to shuffle, and took the gun, holding it lightly in my hand. Then I took several steps back. Arnaud's gun lay on the ground a few feet away and I planted myself an equal distance opposite. I'd give him a chance, or the appearance of one anyway.

"Turn him loose," I requested with a lift of my chin and narrowing of my eyes.

Hobbes didn't say a word, just knelt down and did as I asked, tucking the cuffs back in his pocket. He gave me one last look then disappeared off into the fog.

"Fawkes," Arnaud pleaded, getting up slowly, eyes going from me to his gun which lay on the ground between us and then back. He raised his hands as if in surrender, but I could practically hear the plotting going on in his head.

I'm not an idiot. I knew what he had planned, but I gave him a few last seconds of hope that he might still be able to out maneuver me.

He wouldn't.

When he went for the gun, I fired at the weapon on the ground, sending it spinning off to clang against the base of the stacked containers, forcing him to twist away with a snarl. I could see the flash of frantic wily machinations behind wide eyes, watched as he gave up that potential avenue to gain the upper hand. "Fawkes, you are bleeding out in case you did not notice it. If you don't put pressure on the wounds..."

I shot him in the knee with a precision that Bobby would have been proud of and Arnie went down screaming. I walked over to him, stood there and shot him in the other knee, then, as he tried to crawl away, both elbows.

I squatted down and rolled him over so he couldn't help but stare up at me. "I want you to know how it feels for a just a few minutes."

"How what feels?" he asked his voice high pitched and raw.

"To be in so much pain you want to die and know you can't."

"Fawkes!" he squalled, his hands flopping like a landed fish, fingers twitching as he tried to use his mangled arms.

For a long moment I debated letting him suffer, but sirens in the distance nixed that idea. With a feeling of satisfaction I set one hand over his face, blocking his nose and mouth, his eyes staring up and me in a useless plea for leniency, for just one more moment of life.

Something he'd taken away from me when he'd fucked with the gland. He'd taken my future, my brother's, and now even my life.

I would not live past this last meeting and part of me had known that going in.

But that was okay.

I wanted out, right?

This would be out and maybe, if I was very lucky, I would end up on some beach, watching pretty girls and even prettier sunsets for the whole of eternity, my version of the forty-six virgins that the Koran promises.

Arnaud had finally stopped moving under my hand. His eyes stared up at the gray coated sky high overhead, but seeing nothing.

I'd gotten my vengeance… finally, and while I would have preferred the _with_ my shield option, I would have be satisfied with going out on it.

I got back up and staggered away, finding the side of a container to lean against, and sank slowly yet inexorably down to the ground where I could bleed out in peace… well, a version of peace anyway.

Hobbes found me a few minutes later, chattering up a storm about Monroe killing me if I was dumb enough to die, EMTs and the rest of the team hot on his heels, but the only words I truly heard were, "Hold on."


	8. Chapter 8

The sunsets had been as pretty as I hoped and I'd seen many of them, my ass parked in a comfier than should ever be possible chair, sipping frilly drinks, or a beer; Bobby's carcass parked right beside me. Neither of us with anything to do or places to be. Nothing but quiet days and brilliantly starlit nights.

Perfection.

The odd beeping made me frown in discontent and I turned my head looking for the source of it so I could remove it from existence with prejudice. When I turned back around Bobby had vanished, chair and all, not even an imprint in the sand to show he'd ever been there at all.

The beeping grew louder, enough to drown out the sound of crashing waves and as I watched the whole of the ocean faded into nothingness.

"No," I complained bitterly, not wanting to leave this unexpected slice of heaven I had managed to find. I deserved my rest, had done more than enough to atone for any sins I might have accrued over the years. Hell, I had become a hero in an effort to honor the sacrifice my brother had made for me. Yeah, I'd sucked at it at first, but I'd come around, done the damned job, and saved my slice of the world on more than one occasion. I'd done my time, let someone else take on the damned mantle of invisible man, I wanted no more part of it.

The world about me faded into a white blur, almost like the staticky snow on a TV back in the days when channels actually stopped broadcasting in the wee hours of the morning. The only thing that remained was that annoying beeping, an odd hiccuping beat that seemed unable, or unwilling, to regulate.

If it had, I could have blocked it out and maybe brought my beach back to life.

Instead it grew louder and more irregular, dragging me away from a world I wanted to... to...

I opened my eyes, to see a crappy acoustic tile ceiling above my head. The beeping settled into the sound of a heart rate monitor. I turned my head slowly to see the concerned gaze of my friend, Bobby Hobbes, as he stared at said monitor, a frown adorning his tired features.

He looked a million years older than the swiftly fading image in my mind. Hell, than the last real image I remember, him handing me his gun before walking away and leaving me alone with...

"Arnaud."

Bobby twitched, head snapping about to stare at me in shock, a sudden smile lighting up his features and chasing away every year that had appeared there. "Dead," he assured me. "Watched the autopsy myself to make certain of it."

I sighed softly, an odd weight lifting from me to know I had succeeded.

He set a gentle hand over mine, squeezing tightly. "Welcome back, Fawkes."

...

 _"No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don't want to die to get there. And yet, death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it, and that is how it should be, because death is very likely the single best invention of life. It's life's change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new."_

 _Steve Jobs most likely knew he had only a limited time left to him when he made this statement, but I have to admit I agree with it._

 _Out with the old and in with the new. Not an original concept by any stretch of the imagination, but with far more meaning to him than most, I'm sure. I'd wanted out, not of my life per se, but still out, or, at least, in dire need of a major change._

 _Guess I kinda went to extremes to find my corner of heaven, right back where I started: the sun and sand of San Diego's beaches._

 _finis_


End file.
